


Sacred Ground

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladins, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:28:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Paladin Martin pledges an oath of devotion to his angel.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 60
Kudos: 326





	Sacred Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so. Elephant in the room, this is not the plot continuation I promised in the last fic in this series. I'm really sorry about that; I was planning on working on it this past week, but I've been very stressed out and anxious lately, so I gave myself a mental break and fell back on comfort writing, which is what this fic is. Just something fluffy and nice that I've had outlined for months that I wanted to write eventually, so you're getting it now instead of later. (Also I lowkey just wanted to post something for all you lovely people who have been enjoying this AU. <3)
> 
> This is technically a prequel, but I feel like it makes more sense to read it after the previous fics in the series, so if you're new to this series I'd recommend checking out at least one of those before reading this one.
> 
> Hopefully next time we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming, but again, I'm not sure how long it will take me to post the next fic. This series will continue as planned, I promise!
> 
> For now, please accept this humble sacrifice.

As he pushed through the crowds at the gate that marked the entrance to the square, Martin tried not to look completely out of his depth.

The Capitol was a bright, loud, overwhelming place at the best of times, and now it was practically alive with throngs of onlookers and hopeful paladins filling its center square and spilling out into the surrounding streets. What seemed like thousands of visitors from neighboring towns were drawn to the great, shining city like moths to a flame, eager to witness this year’s Paladins’ Ceremony for themselves. Some, like Martin, were there to take part in it.

If he could figure out where he was supposed to stand, that is. Martin cast around the seemingly endless sea of people, trying to catch a familiar glimpse of paladin armor. Back in his relatively tiny village, Martin rarely if ever encountered more than forty or fifty people at a time, and though he’d visited the Capitol before, this was an entirely different experience. It really wasn’t fair, he thought as he tried to steady himself with a breath. He was already anxious enough about the ceremony without all these people around.

Finally, he spotted a smaller, sectioned-off corner of the square where a group of paladins were milling about, waiting for the ceremony to begin. He made his way over, pushing through the crowds as politely as he could, before realizing that politeness would get him nowhere, and simply shoving his way through. As Martin approached, some of his fellow paladins looked up from where they were sitting on benches or chatting to one another, but most ignored him. He supposed he wasn’t exactly a foreboding figure, and of course none of them knew him the way they mostly seemed to know one another. As new paladins joined the group, most were greeted by name, with hellos and claps on the back.

Martin carved out a familiar, lonely space on a bench near the back of the group, and tried to think about nothing except the reason he had come here.

He stared across the square at the only area that was free of people: the Grove of Shrines, a patch of shaded greenery where every paladin here today would kneel and pledge an oath of devotion to their chosen angel. Every angel, even the most obscure of them, had a shrine here, engraved with their holy symbol. Still, Martin’s heart hammered in his chest as he slowly scanned each shrine, searching for the right one. Unbidden, a thought crossed his mind: What if this had been a mistake. What if after all this, it wasn’t there. What if it wasn’t—

But, of course, there it was, under the shade of a broad-leaved tree. Martin exhaled deeply, calmed at just the sight of his angel’s shrine: a simple pillar of white marble, carved with the symbol of an open book, stylized to look like two open moth’s wings. It was a symbol Martin had kept in his mind’s eye since he first saw it, when he was about eleven or twelve years old.

Growing up, he and his mother had lived in a rickety old cottage that was in constant danger of falling apart at the seams, meaning the windows never shut properly. In the wintertime, this was a constant discomfort, but during the warm summer months, insects would come into the house and hover by the light of the candles. The most common visitors, especially at night, were moths, and in Martin’s opinion, they were also the loveliest. He was entranced by the designs on their wings and their skittish yet harmless demeanor. More often than not, he let the candle at his bedside burn itself out before he went to sleep, so the moths would stay for longer.

When he was finally old enough to go to the library by himself, Martin took to researching moths, poring through any book he could find on the subject. One day, stuck in between the encyclopedias and anatomical diagrams, he found a book, almost a century old, that wasn’t really about moths at all, though its cover was emblazoned with the winged book symbol that would grow so familiar to Martin with time. It described a lesser angel that Martin had never heard of, not in his lessons at school, nor from any of the paladins who would pass through the town and speak of their angel to anyone who would listen. They were an Angel of Written Knowledge, and they had apparently remained obscure and mysterious over the centuries, even among paladins. The author seemed to know little about the angel themself, but what they did have to report fascinated Martin. Specifically, that the angel seemed to hold dominion over moths, and, as their name implied, they sought out and hoarded written knowledge.

At that young age, Martin hadn’t yet given much thought to what he would do with his life beyond taking care of his mother, but it was then that he decided he wanted to become a paladin. He would devote himself to this angel who seemed to love books and moths as much as he did.

Martin concentrated on this thought as he stared with razor focus at his angel’s shrine. He wasn’t here to impress anyone, or make his mark among the other paladins, or please the crowd of onlookers. He was here for his angel. Nothing else mattered.

It was then that the master of ceremonies came out, and, when the crowd had finally quieted, they began to call out the paladins’ names.

With his surname, Martin knew he’d be close to the top of the list. Though it would likely mean little at this stage, he sent up a silent prayer for a steady heart when it came time to pledge his oath. Just now, it felt more like a rabbit’s heart, pounding wildly in his chest, as each paladin’s name was called and, one by one, they entered the Grove of Shrines.

Most of the paladins went straight for the largest and most popular shrines. The Angels of Wisdom, Charity, and Strength were particularly popular, and the grass that surrounded their shrines was well-trod and nearly flattened. Most paladins would pledge their oaths with a grand speech (some of which went on a bit too long, in Martin’s opinion), rallying the crowd to cheer in their favor as they eagerly awaited the angel’s response. They needn’t have worried; Martin watched along with the crowd as, after every speech, the chosen shrine glowed with otherworldly energy, a clear mark of the angel’s acceptance of their oath. It was an open secret that most angels accepted anyone; more followers meant more power, and what angel wouldn’t want more of that?

Still, when Martin’s name was called, his rabbit heart pounded anxiously as he rose from the back of the group and made his way into the forgiving shade of the grove. His eyes hadn’t strayed from his angel’s symbol once, and he walked steadily towards it, head high and shoulders back. He could feel the eyes of the crowd following him as he passed the shrines of the greater angels and most of the lesser ones, and heard the confused titters when he stopped at the foot of the much smaller, overlooked pillar of marble, surrounded by wild grass that had been left untrampled for, Martin could only assume, at least a century.

* * *

There was something different about this year’s ceremony, and it bothered Jon that he couldn’t tell what it was. He had asked a handful of moths to hover about so he could watch, as he did every year, though there was rarely much of a point to doing so. Once every decade or so, something interesting might happen, but all in all, Jon saw the whole affair as more of a temporary distraction than something he had a personal investment in. He was sure that none of the paladins had ever heard of him, and certainly no one had wanted to pledge an oath to him over the course of his three centuries of existence. Jon wasn’t expecting that to change any time soon, which didn’t bother him at all, really. He didn’t _need_ a paladin, after all. During the ceremony he’d usually just sit and read, absentmindedly checking in with his moths every few minutes, and that had suited him fine up until now.

This year, though, was different. As soon as his moths flew into the grove to find a decent view of the proceedings, they grew restless, and Jon felt it, too. There was a presence, somewhere in the crowd of paladins or onlookers, he couldn’t be sure which, that was tugging on Jon’s attention. He shut the book he’d been reading, and looked through the eyes of his moths’ wings, instead.

At first, he could see nothing out of the ordinary: cheering crowds, bright colors, eager paladins waiting for the ceremony to begin. Names began to be called, and Jon watched, already bored, as paladins grandstanded for minutes at a time for angels that, Jon knew, would take just about anyone who was half-decent at swinging a sword.

Still, that restless feeling remained, which more than anything was irking him at this point. At least during dull ceremonies he could distract himself with a book, but now he couldn’t concentrate on anything else with that odd, insistent tugging at the back of his mind. He just wanted to know what it was so he could _do_ something about it.

But then, just as Jon’s irritation was reaching its peak, another name was called, and the moths saw who it belonged to. Jon’s own eyes widened as he watched a man emerge from the crowd of paladins. He was short in stature, but carried himself with a pride that did not seem at all performative. He wore shining bronze paladin armor, and a formidable greatsword that he clearly had the strength for was strapped to his back. It didn’t escape Jon’s notice that he was rather handsome. Martin Blackwood, he had been called, and Jon felt the tugging sensation grow stronger with each step he took towards the grove.

* * *

As he approached his angel’s shrine, Martin realized faintly that he no longer felt nervous. Pushing aside all thoughts of the crowd behind him, he reached to brandish his greatsword. Reverently, he knelt before the shrine, in the soft, untouched grass, and drove the point of the sword into the ground before him.

Martin had no grand speeches prepared. Instead, he closed his eyes, and summoned every childhood memory of friendly moths hovering around his bed at night, making him feel a little less lonely. He thought of the peaceful hours spent reading in the corners of the library, where nobody, especially his mother, could find him and tell him to stop. He thought of every time he’d found solace in the pages of books or in his own written words, when poetry was his only escape from when it all grew too overwhelming.

Head bowed towards the pierced ground beneath him, he murmured, almost silently, “Most honorable Angel of Written Knowledge, I know little of you, as there is little to find. Still, I think I may know you better than anyone else, and from what I know of you, you seem a kindred spirit. I make no declarations except that my devotion to you is as irrevocable as the words inked in the pages of a book. If you require proof, I invite you to look into my heart, and see the truth of my words.”

Then, keeping his eyes shut tight, Martin waited.

* * *

If Jon hadn’t been an angel of knowledge, he almost wouldn’t have believed it, even as he watched. The moths fluttered excitedly in the trees above as this paladin—Martin—made his way carefully through the grove, passing each angel’s shrine without a glance, only to stop at Jon’s. There was no hesitation as he approached and unsheathed his greatsword, and Jon realized, suddenly, what was about to happen, and a kind of hopeful excitement suffused his chest.

As Martin knelt and drove the sword into the ground, Jon swore he could feel his heart shudder. Nobody had ever knelt at his shrine before. Was this, he wondered faintly, what it always felt like for the other angels when someone swore an oath of devotion to them? Or was it just this Martin, so sincere and certain, who was unique among paladins?

Then Martin began to speak, and though the moths could not make out his words, Jon heard them as clearly as if he were sitting next to him. Martin’s voice vibrated somewhere deep in Jon’s chest, and again he had to wonder if this was what every angel felt when paladins made their grand speeches. He couldn’t imagine that was the case—this was so close, so intimate. It seemed preposterous that just any paladin could kneel at Jon’s shrine and speak with him this way; it was such a precious, private thing.

When Martin invited him to look, Jon hesitated for only a moment before closing his sight off from the moths’ wings and instead turning it towards Martin’s thoughts. Memories opened for him like a book, and Jon could see flashes of libraries, of moths, of his own holy symbol, of poetry. Jon reached for something more solid, more contextual, and was met with dozens of scenes: Martin hiding from his mother in a far corner of the library, head buried in a book almost as tall as he was; Martin laughing as moths flew around his bed and landed on his hands; Martin reading and rereading the pages of a book about _Jon_ , of all angels; Martin sitting alone at a candlelit writing desk, tears at the corners of his eyes, scribbling furiously; Martin taking up a sword for the first time, nervous but determined; Martin kneeling, here and now, at the foot of Jon’s shrine, hoping that Jon could understand.

_Yes,_ was all that Jon could think. _Yes, yes, yes._

* * *

Not daring to even breathe too heavily in the suddenly silent air, Martin waited for his angel’s response. The seconds stretched on, longer than they usually did, and the anxious feeling returned, his rabbit’s heart starting to beat again. A full minute passed, agonizingly slowly, and still there was nothing.

The crowd behind him was beginning to grow restless, and he could hear them tittering in poorly-disguised whispers that were somewhere between pity and mockery. _That’s what he gets for picking a lesser angel,_ he heard someone say. _I’ve never even heard of that one,_ said someone else. Another voice said, doubtfully, _Maybe it’s dead._

Martin felt his rigid posture sag slightly, wondering if perhaps they were right after all, and this had all been a huge mistake, and maybe his angel wasn’t there, or didn’t care, or thought that Martin was a pitiful fool—

And suddenly he heard the muttering voices in the crowd turn to gasps. Despite his resolve to keep his eyes closed, on instinct, Martin opened them and looked up.

He only had a brief moment to gasp himself before they filled his vision: hundreds of moths, flying towards him, coming seemingly from nowhere and everywhere, eclipsing Martin’s sight and, a moment later, covering every inch of his armor in their fluttering wings. They flew over and around him, flowing like a tide, landing on him wherever they could reach, adorning his armor and his hands and his hair and his face, their wings brushing against him like kisses. Reflexively, he brought up his arms, though of course there was no danger—only a cacophony of wings of innumerable sizes and shapes and colors, whirling around him like a strange, beautiful kaleidoscope.

In his surprise, Martin had fallen down into a sitting position, and as he slowly recovered from the initial surprise, he began to laugh, partly from relief, but mostly from sheer delight. This was as clear an answer as he could have hoped for from his angel, more wonderful and intimate than the glowing of a shrine. Any trace of anxiety he had felt before had been replaced with joy, and the moths that flew around him seemed to share in it, their flight almost like a dance, a celebration of what he had found that day, and what they had found in him.

Eventually, Martin had no way of telling how long, the moths began to disperse, slowly lifting off and away, though they lingered nearby for a moment or two before flying off back into the trees, as though bidding Martin farewell. Martin waved after them, a smile still on his face, as he rose from the grass to retrieve his sword and catch his breath. After dusting himself off, he made one last small bow to the shrine, and murmured, “Thank you.” The realization that his angel would hear it, and welcome it, made his chest grow warm.

A few moths from the group stayed behind, hovering around his shoulders like pauldrons, following him as he made his way out of the grove and back out into the square, where the onlookers cheered with newfound enthusiasm, thrilled by the spectacle the likes of which had never before been seen at a Paladins’ Ceremony. The remaining paladins could only stare at Martin, some appreciatively and some less so, as he walked past them and out of the square, heading in the direction of the city gate, away from the crowds. At the moment, he did not wish for shallow congratulations from strangers.

It was a long journey back to his village, but Martin barely noticed; there was always a moth or two fluttering at his side throughout the trip, and for the first time in a long time, Martin did not feel as though he was traveling alone.

* * *

Even as he watched Martin bow before his shrine one last time, Jon could hardly believe he had been so lucky that Martin was his paladin. _His_ paladin. How lucky it was that Martin loved books as much as Jon did, that he was as alone as Jon was, that he had found Jon, after centuries of being forgotten. That Martin had chosen Jon at all. It was almost too good to be true.

He would make his appreciation known, then. Martin was Jon’s paladin, after all, and that also meant that Jon was Martin’s angel. If Martin had chosen Jon to devote himself to, Jon would devote himself to Martin in turn. Though he had little power at the moment, he’d lend whatever help he could. He’d listen to every prayer, every request. He’d be at Martin’s side the moment he needed him, in battle or out. He’d ask his moths to ensure his safety, and if possible, his happiness. He’d make certain that Martin knew how much he meant to Jon, even if he couldn’t yet tell him with words.

Jon watched from the remaining moths’ wings as Martin headed out of the city, and though he would have liked to walk beside him as a companion, Jon was satisfied enough for now by the quiet smile on Martin’s face, and the joyous laughter that lingered in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Once again, there will be more to come, hopefully before the end of October. Stay tuned!


End file.
